


To talk; to touch

by LadyRhiyana



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Westerosi setting, F/M, First Time, One Night Stands, Porn Without (much) Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Westerosi Peacekeeping forces
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 13:40:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16430465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhiyana/pseuds/LadyRhiyana
Summary: “Is it true?” she asks. “About the Slavers’ fleet. They say you were at the docks when it was destroyed by – by dragonfire.”His smile dies, and his eyes lose their focus and go glassy and remote once more. “Yes,” is all he says as he pours himself another drink, the clear liquid in the glass trembling. He is shaking, she realizes; fine, almost invisible tremors.**Modern Westerosi Peacekeeping AU. After hearing that the dragons have been unleashed in Meereen, Brienne goes in search of Jaime to offer - friendship. Companionship. Simple human touch.





	To talk; to touch

**Author's Note:**

> So, this came about after having feels watching "Black Hawk Down" and because of my love for episode 7.04. There's really no other excuse. Also, this is my first time writing smut. *crosses fingers*

She comes back from six long weeks out in the desert, bone-weary and aching and strung out after weeks of high alert. Greasy black clouds of smoke hang over the city, and though the wind has finally stopped blowing ash, she can smell the acrid, sulphuric stink – 

Dragonfire, they tell her at the barracks. Daenerys Targaryen, Breaker of Chains – the messianic leader of the fanatical rebel forces – had finally unleashed her dragons on the Masters. And the Westerosi peacekeeping forces had been caught in the middle.

She feels unsettled and restless, jumping at every stray sound and shadow. Finally she can’t bear the solitude any longer, and she gives in to her worry and goes in search of Jaime. 

**

She finds him in a shadowed bar in the safe zone, the outer brick walls pocked with bullet scars and covered with anti-Slaver graffiti. The bartender points him out, the lone Westerosi officer in the corner, drinking alone; his uniform is scorched and burned and he smells of ash and fire. He’s halfway through a bottle already, clearly intent on drinking himself into oblivion; he looks as tightly wound and as desperate for distraction as she feels, and so she screws up her courage and takes a chance.

When she sits down beside him he slowly raises his gaze to hers, and she draws in her breath: his brilliant green eyes are remote, unseeing, unfocused, until he comes back to himself with a blink. Between one moment and the next, he re-gathers a sort of worn, sardonic composure; he even manages a shred of amusement as he looks her over. 

Brienne feels her heart sink. Golden, beautiful Ser Jaime Lannister, second in command of the Westerosi forces in Meereen, does not need – friendship, or companionship, or whatever they are to each other. 

All her hard-won courage fails her and she freezes like a deer in the headlights; she can’t think of anything to say, and so she simply stares at him in miserable silence. 

He watches her in amusement for a while, until he finally takes pity on her and pushes the bottle and a spare glass in her direction. “Have a drink, wench,” he says. “You look like you need it.”

She pours herself a hefty measure and throws it back, wincing at the burn of cheap Meereenese vodka. He laughs softly as she coughs, her eyes burning, and pours her another – this time, she drinks it more slowly, feeling the flush of artificial warmth that always came with alcohol. 

“Thank you,” she manages to rasp out. 

He gifts her with a threadbare smile. “When did you get back?” he asks. 

She checks her watch. “Two hours ago. I heard the news – about the dragons – and came looking for you. To see if you needed –” she trails off. 

To talk, she thinks. To touch. In the two years since their paths first crossed they have never strayed into physical intimacy, though they have grown closer and more entangled than ever. 

“Is it true?” she asks, “about the Slavers’ fleet. They say you were at the docks when it was destroyed by – by dragonfire.”

His smile dies, and his eyes lose their focus and go glassy and remote once more. “Yes,” is all he says as he pours himself another drink, the clear liquid in the glass trembling. He is shaking, she realizes; fine, almost invisible tremors. 

“She reduced an entire fleet to the waterline in minutes,” he continues, “leaving nothing but ash behind. What could fire like that do to an entire city?” He looks at her, his face desperate as though caught in his own private nightmare. 

She remembers the iconic picture splashed over the front page of every newspaper in Westeros: the image taken from security camera footage of Aerys’ murder, of the mad king on his knees before his killer, begging for life. It was not Aerys’ rage and fear that had made the image so powerful, but the expression on Jaime’s face, just before he pulled the trigger. 

Because he is shaking, because his eyes are wild and desperate, because she feels the same shuddering uncertainty herself, she puts a tentative hand on his shoulder. He leans unconsciously into her touch – she can feel the fever warmth of him, the thin film of his sweat, and the acrid taste of smoke and fear.

**

She takes him to bed. 

It is a mutual understanding, unspoken, born of a primitive need for comfort and human touch; as they head back towards the barracks she is feverishly aware of his warmth beside her, of what they are about to do. 

She doesn’t remember the walk back to his quarters – my bed will be larger, she remembers him saying – but only comes back to herself when the door clicks shut behind them. She turns to face him, suddenly unsure, but he reaches for her, his hand gentle on her cheek. “Brienne,” he says, and it’s all the reassurance she needs. 

She presses her mouth clumsily against his, feeling his soft huff of laughter as he takes better control of the kiss, gently nipping at her lip and coaxing her to let him in; while she is distracted by his mouth, his taste, he pulls her flush against him and steers her over to the bed. 

She is dimly aware of him stripping off her uniform jacket and undershirt, the touch of his rough, calloused palms against her bare skin a warm shock; when he cups her small breast and teases her nipple she tears her mouth away from his and throws her head back. He takes the opportunity to lick and kiss her throat, biting down on the juncture of her collarbone, and she scrabbles desperately at his jacket and shirt, trying to tear them off and get her hands on his warm chest. 

He’s so beautiful, she has time to think, before he wrestles her down to the bed, tears open her trousers and drags open her strong, muscled thighs. She gasps, her breath hitching, as he puts his mouth on her. “Oh,” she breathes, “really?” and he laughs at her, soft huffing breaths, and deliberately rubs his stubbled cheek on her inner thighs. 

She squirms away, but he grabs her again and hauls her back. “Yes,” he drawls, “really, now let me get on with it, wench.” His head dips down once more, and she feels his soft, wet tongue on her clit, his rough, calloused fingers probing her. She arches up, her back bowing, but he holds her down with one arm across her waist; she cries out in shock, her eyes wide and blind with pleasure, her strong, freckled hands gripping his golden hair and her voice gasping his name over and over as she comes. 

He comes back over her, face flushed and eyes glittering, and kisses her again. His body is heavy on her, warm and sweating and real. When he pulls her legs up around his waist and settles his cock at her entrance, he looks down at her, his green eyes fixed on her, burning and intent. She cups his cheek, tangles her hand in his hair, and drags him down to her – “Do it,” she hisses in his ear. 

He laughs softly, something like fondness overtaking him. “Brienne,” he grinds out, pressing his brow against hers – and then he pushes into her wet heat, and she feels only a tiny, pinching pain and an immense sense of burning fullness. She gasps, her hips rising up to meet him, and then they are rocking together, legs and arms gripping tightly, breaths gasping and mouths tangling until he buries his face in her shoulder and groans, his golden body shaking as he comes, before collapsing on her, warm and heavy and replete. 

In the silence afterwards, their breathing is heavy and gasping, their bodies slick with sweat and still shuddering with aftershocks. But when she presses her forehead against his, her eyes searching out his, trying to gauge his reaction, his eyes are clear and aware, focused on her and this moment – not far away and 17 years ago, and not lost in the memory of dragonfire. 

They fall asleep tangled together, her hand stroking his hair, his breath warm and reassuring in her ear.


End file.
